Dear Camilla,

5: Honest Face

Dear Camilla,

There's a cliche saying from old crime shows that claims it is always the ones you least suspect who do the most incomprehensibly evil things. But, even knowing theoretically that the ones you trust the most are capable of deeply hurting you, it's hard to fully adopt that concept into your everyday life. Reconciling with that truth is tricky. You think it could never happen to me: blinded by your youth, ignorant to the concept of your own mortality, living under the illusion of forever. I learned the hard way.

You see, the next thing I knew I was in the back of a yellow taxi cab jetting towards the Rockefeller Center. We were stuffed in the backseat together. He smelled like fresh pine leaves, old books, and kept promises. I considered his face closely. Camilla, you have to understand, he had such an honest face; big hazel green eyes, lightly tanned skin, messy blonde hair, a blessed face complete with full lips. Oliver had a sturdy, sharp nose, and chiseled cheekbones and the whites of his eyes were bright and healthy. His physique may as well have been chiseled by a Grecian sculptor. His beauty and spontaneity were confusing— I kept asking myself, why me? It was as if I had been struck by lightning, rare and profound, a jolt of energy sent from Zeus himself.

We looked like mismatched socks: I was wearing a white floral dress with red, mud-caked Converse, and he, a classy business casual suit. I felt scrawny and out of place in comparison to all his glory— young and shy, but recognized and validated by his gaze. Meak and bothersome, but learning and blossoming under his sunshine. Maybe I was too focused on me, how I came across, was I good enough, that I forgot to stop and critically think about the situation, about him. Maybe if I hadn't spent all my energy figuring out the perfect thing to say, noticing his opinions, I could have realized that my wings were dripping wax.

Then there we were, atop The Rock, seventy stories above the trees, witnessing the city that never sleeps set on fire by the vibrant red sunset, in the clouds like angels. But, then again, the Devil was once God's favorite angel too.

"Maxine, this moment is a singularity, you can see our beginning, right over there in the park, and you can see the ending, the sun setting in three... two... one..."

At that moment it sure felt like I had known him a thousand lifetimes, like our story was a classic, repeated again and again, infinitely.

Camilla, he reminded me a good deal of you. Perhaps that is why I took an immediate trust in this stranger, why I felt like I had met him before. Perhaps I was imagining that it was you and I, there, that night, projecting the love I have for you onto him. Even if the parallels were fleeting, ephemeral moments, they were strong enough to glitter my perception of him with refractions of you, to make him shine perhaps more brightly than he could have alone.

Regardless, what followed was a truly marvelous evening that the roaring 20s would've envied.

"You know Maxine, I'm glad I approached you today. I didn't want to scare you, but I'd curse myself for the longest time if I didn't. Now, you can't haunt my what-ifs, only my goodbyes." He spoke softly, his eyes fixated on something distant in the view.

"Your goodbyes?"

"Well... I'll have to return to London at some point. I have work and a life and a flat. I wish I could have your weightless youth for myself, but reality grows heavier with age."

"Oh... Oh, of course."

I shivered a bit, the sun had set and my shoulders were exposed to the wind. The silence ricocheted around in my ribcage, puncturing my inside and deflating it like a forgotten, week-old birthday balloon in the corner that no one had the heart to throw out.

He could sense that thought stung.

"Hey, what do you say we have a night out on the town, my treat. You'll need an evening dress though, I'm afraid." He winked at me and grinned. Or smirked. I could never tell.

"Whatever you say," I offered tentatively, not sure what he meant.

Then we were back in a cab, off to some fancy boutique store. My breath of fresh air, clarity in the pain of knowing the future, was cut short and I was back underwater, holding my breath and deaf to the calls from above. The city lights blazed by me, I tried to capture each and every brand new one in my mind's chest like coveted gems that bedazzled my memories.

Camilla, it reminded me of that night we stole your father's truck and drove up to Nashville. I hadn't quite seen lights like that before. I operated on a farmer's schedule, rise when the sun does, and sleep with it too. Here, life seemed christened with miles and miles of endlessly vast swaths of opportunity. I stuck my head out the passenger side window and submitted to the Southern hot air, letting it hit my cheeks and sting my eyes. It smelled like summer, sweet and warm, full of life.

The shop was dimly lit and smelled like earthy perfume. Everything was made of mirrors, the walls, the ceiling, and the register. The floor was a dark shiny granite that reflected my timid face back to me.

"I think you'd look absolutely dashing in a crimson red," he suggested. "Excuse me, could you grab that silk plunge neck one in a size..?"

"Two," I filled in the gap.

"Two, please," he finished. And could you also grab a pair of those golden sandal heels on the display from outside in a size seven?"

"How'd you know that," I said, with a chuckle.

"Oh, lucky guess," he responded, light-heartedly.

He pinched my waist playfully and looked down at me with a winning smile.

The tall woman with her blonde hair in a tight, refined bun came back with the items. The dressing room was one of those chic ones with the almost sheer curtains that revealed your changing silhouette but hid the details. I'd never been in a shop like this before, let alone try on anything from one. Inside I glimpsed at the price tag and did a double-take. Six hundred and seventy-five dollars? That's more than I made in a month back home. I almost didn't believe it, maybe they misplaced the period? Added an extra number? I slipped it on and it felt like magic. The color and fabric made my pale skin glow. The plunge neck and tight-fitting waist revealed features of my figure I never realized I had. The shoes fit, but the extra inches made me feel unsteady. I thought about what you'd think if you saw me in this. It excited me and I felt woozy, my head spun.

I knew I looked good, which was a feeling I savored like rich, dark chocolate. But, I was nervous to come out and be seen by Oliver and the woman. I didn't have much of an escape, though, and I knew that if I took any longer inside the dressing room it would come across as strange. Plus, they could see me staring at myself through the curtain. I took a deep breath and emerged.

Oliver didn't smile and stared into my eyes for thirty silent seconds. I panicked. Did I do something wrong? Then he broke into a full-bellied laugh and his expression softened.

"Did I frighten you there? You look so nervous, my dear."

"Oh," I giggled, partially relieved. "No. No worries. So, what do you think?"

"Well, I think you look absolutely jaw-dropping. You broke my practiced poker face. Why don't you keep it on for when we go out to dinner? You can leave your other clothes here."

Truthfully, I wasn't okay with parting with my old clothes. I had had those sneakers since my sophomore year of high school. Countless memories were made wearing those converse, but I really wanted the dress and didn't dare disagree with him.

"Yeah, that's perfect!" I agreed hastily, biting my tongue hard, metaphorically and literally. I didn't look back at the crumpled artifacts of my old life abandoned in the dressing room, to be tossed in an NYC dumpster like garbage. My saliva tasted metallic, so I swallowed hard and swished my tongue around my front teeth in an effort to conceal the blood gushing from its tip. I imagined the color inside looked an awful lot like the red on my new dress.

The blonde woman came up behind me and cut the tag off without saying a word, averting my eyes.

"Would you like the shoes as well?" She asked Oliver.

"Yes, of course."

"That'll be..." She paused and punched the numbers on her calculator, "one thousand one hundred and fifteen dollars, with tax, then, at the register, please."

Then I followed him like a dog into the night.

Missing you,

Maxine